Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“Cromwell,” he said, pulling my attention.
“I don’t need one-on-one sessions.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. He leaned his arms on the table. “Cromwell, I know you’ve been focused on dance music for a while now. If that’s what you want to focus on, then fine. We’ll focus on that.”
“You know how to teach me things about EDM?”
Lewis narrowed his eyes on me. “No. But I know music. I can tell you what is working and what isn’t.” He paused, assessing me. “Or we can work on some of your old strengths.” He pointed across at the instruments. “Piano. Violin.” He huffed a laugh. “Anything really.”
“No thanks,” I muttered. I checked the time on the clock. It was nearly the weekend. As soon as this meeting was done, a bottle of Jack waited for me. This week had pulled me apart, and I was ready to let it go. Ready to embrace the numbness that came with being trashed.
“Do you still compose?”
I rested my hands behind my head. “Nope.”
Lewis’s head tipped to the side. “I don’t believe you.”
Every part of me tensed. “Believe what you want,” I snapped.
“What I mean is, I don’t think you’d be able to stop yourself from composing.” He tapped his head. “As much as we want it to, this never switches off.” He clasped his hands on the tabletop. “Even when I was at my most messed up, with the drink, the drugs, I still composed.” He smiled, but there was nothing happy or humorous about it. Instead it looked sad. It looked like I felt inside. “I came out of rehab with an entire symphony.” He lost his fake smile. “Even if something makes you hate music, whatever it is can often be the catalyst for your next great work.”
“Deep,” I muttered. Lewis slumped in dejection. I was being a dick again. But everything this week had just been too much. I was tired and wrung dry.
I just needed a damn break.
It was funny. I didn’t know if it was being with Lewis, but in that moment I thought of my father and how me being this way toward someone would have broken his heart. He didn’t raise me this way.
“Manners cost nothing, son. Always be gracious with those who want to help.”
But he wasn’t here anymore. And I’d coped with that fact in the only way I knew how. I checked the clock again. “Can I go now?”
Lewis looked at the clock and sighed. As I got up, he said, “I’m not trying to counsel you, Cromwell. I just want you to realize the gift you’ve been given.”
I mock-saluted him. I couldn’t take one more person telling me about my talent. It was hard enough to push it aside without Lewis and Bonnie fanning the flames that I tried to keep extinguished.
“Your father saw it,” he said as my hand hit the doorknob.
I turned my head to face him, and, having no more fight, I felt the floodgates fall. “You mention him again, and I’ll stop coming. I’m this close to dropping out of this shithole anyway.”
Lewis held up his hands. “Fine. I’ll stop mentioning him.” He got off his chair and came toward me. He was pretty tall. He stopped a few feet away. “But as for the dropping out. You won’t.”
I stood off the door, shoulders back. “Yeah? And what do you know about—”
“Enough to know that even though you’re carrying a chip the size of Alaska on your shoulder right now, you won’t leave.” He pointed to the room. “This is your arena. You’re just too pissed and hurt to accept it right now.” He shrugged. “You do see it, but you’re fighting it.” The knowing look in his eyes almost brought me to my knees. “You’re a good DJ, Mr. Dean. Lord knows it pays well these days, and I will no doubt see your name in lights in the future. But with the gift you have, you could be a legend on this stage.” He pointed at the shot of him in the Albert Hall. He sat down. “I suppose the decision will be up to you.”
I stared at the picture for a second, at Lewis in a tux commanding the orchestra playing the music he had created. I felt the lead ball in my stomach, the one that tried to plow through my wall. Whatever lived inside me, that made me this way with music, was clawing to get out. It was getting harder and harder to subdue.
“I hope it will be the latter path you find yourself on, Cromwell. God knows I know what it’s like to live a life with that kind of regret.” He flicked his hand and started up his laptop. “Let yourself out. I have compositions to look at.” He looked at me over his screen. “I’m waiting on your and Ms. Farraday’s outline. I won’t wait forever.”